College Boy : A Novel (9781416586500)

by Omar Tyree

  “Well, that’s you. I only sit up front when it’s a small class,” Clay said.

  “Why? Because then you feel comfortable in a smaller crowd of people?”

  “Yup, you got it. That’s when I participate.”

  “So you’re sayin’ that every time you’re in a crowded place, you’re going to sit in the back. What if you have a job with a lot of people? Are you gon’ go to the back there too, and get the least amount of pay, talkin’ ’bout you feel comfortable back there?” Troy quizzed sarcastically. He thought Clay’s explanation was humorous. Clay must be crazy out his mind! he mused.

  Clay chuckled. “Naw, man. I ain’t sayin’ that. But that’s just how I feel right now.”

  Troy went to his Black literature class, where they discussed the status of Black Americans.

  “Blacks own nothing in their own communities, and they got Japanese starting to build their own schools in New York because they don’t think the public schools are good enough. The Italians own everything in their communities, as well as the Jews and Koreans do. But we own nothing. That don’t make any sense,” Mike X was saying.

  “I know, and every time that one Black steps out, the White people point their fingers and say, ‘There goes your progress.’ But only individuals are making it, not the masses of Black people,” Nia added.

  “The way I see it, the White media doesn’t want any strong-minded Blacks to have the spotlight. They would rather give people like Michael Jackson, whom I like musically but not as a representation of my people, the spotlight for all of us.

  “Every time someone says something about Malcolm X, who was a strong Black man that I loved with all of my heart and soul, it’s like a curse word. But yet everyone wants to treasure Martin Luther King,” Rose Perry said.

  “I think that’s because not enough people know much about Malcolm X. I only heard his name one-time when I was younger, and the teachers said that he had gotten shot. So I thought he was in a gang or something,” Troy commented. He, Mike X, Nia Imani, and Rose Perry headed their discussions every class period. They were the outspoken students.

  “That’s because Black people were scared to follow a Black man of heart and soul. You can get a bunch of people to march to the White House and sing church songs, but it’s totally different when you ask them to support a Black economic movement. Blacks are too dependent upon Whites when it comes down to what really makes the world go round, and it’s not sitting in White-owned coffee shops,” Mike X said.

  Professor Jameson nodded. “I agree. Malcolm X was a strong political figure in the history of African-Americans. I would also agree that his cry for economic parity would scare the establishment a lot more than King’s talk of integration.”

  After dinner, Bruce and Troy rode the elevator. It was crowded with a horde of White students who spoke loudly, as usual.

  “How are you, Carol? How were your classes today?”

  “Fine. Everything is peachy. What did you do this weekend?”

  “I went to this party, and it was really nice because they had everything set up beautifully and everyone showed up on time and it was just grand. I mean, the total occasion was gorgeous.”

  Troy got off at the sixth floor on his way to Bruce’s room. “Do you hear how they talk, man? They make me sick with that shit. It don’t even seem like they listen to each other,” he said disgustedly to Bruce. “You know what? I’m gon’ call ’em plastic people.”

  They entered Bruce’s room, which was crowded with accessories. “You gon’ call ’em plastic people?” Bruce asked with raised brows.

  “Yeah, man, ’cause they’re not real. I can’t stand White people now. I don’t see how they took over the world in the first place. They’re stupid as hell.

  “Damn, cuz!I feel like just beating some White people up!” Troy shouted. Bruce laughed as his friend continued raving. “Imagine slave days, Bruce, when big dudes like you were owned by a White master who was, like, five-foot-three. And you be talkin’ like a big pussy. ‘Oh, sure. Yes, massa. Right away, sir. Anything for you, massa.’”

  “Damn!”Troy raged again.

  Bruce fell out with laughter. “You funny as hell, man. But I hate them old movies like that,” he said. “I used to hate whenRoots came on. I used to go in my room and put my head under my pillow when that show came on.”

  Troy contorted his face as if reacting to a pungent smell. “Damn, Bruce, man! I should have never come to this White-ass school! I should have gone to a Black university like my Mom told me. But naw, I wanted to play Division 1 basketball. Most of the athletes don’t know what the hell they goin’ to do if they don’t make the pros!” he shouted.

  “Dig, mayn, ’cause I’m in that boat right now. I ain’t seen no time yet,” Bruce said glumly.

  Brrrloop brrrloop.

  “Hello … Yeah, what’s up, girl?” Bruce asked, answering his telephone.

  “Who’s that?” Troy asked.

  Bruce covered the phone with his massive right hand. “She’s bad ashell.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t get that assignment,” he said to her.

  “Does she live here, Bruce?” Troy asked.

  Bruce nodded, and Troy headed for the door.

  “Yo, where you goin’, mayn?” Bruce asked him.

  “To my room.”

  “Aw’ight, then. I’ll catch you later on.”

  Troy went to his room and began to study, only to be interrupted by Scott, one of the freshman students he had met. His door was unlocked, so Scott walked right in after knocking softly.

  “Hey, historian,” Troy called him.

  “You always studying, hunh, Troy?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah, that’s why I always get good grades.”

  “That’s good, man. I wish that I could do that,” Scott said before dropping his head.

  “What, you’re not doing too well?”

  “Nope. I’m failing these C.M.P. classess. They’re supposed to be easy.”

  “Ay’, man, a lot of y’all gotta learn to discipline yourselves to study.”

  “I know,” Scott responded.

  “But to tell you the truth, every day I think about quittin’ and just droppin’ out of school,” Troy revealed.

  Scott was stunned. Why wouldyou want to drop out of school? he asked himself about Troy. “Aw, man, you can’t be serious. You’re on the honor roll, and you got a scholarship,” he said.

  “It all doesn’t matter, man. It’s what makes you happy that matters. I’m unhappy here. I just want to be a part of the world again,” Troy explained. “It feels like we in a different place while we’re in college, like, we don’t fit in anymore, especially in this White school. It just seems like the entire world is made for them White students.”

  Scott nodded, understanding Troy perfectly. The feeling was not at all alien to him. “I know, man, that’s the same way I feel about it. It seems like we’re going to be educated slaves for the White people. And they’re damn sure going to be the ones doing the hiring when the money time comes.”

  “Yeah, man, and that’s the kind of shit that makes me wanna say,‘Fuck college!’ It means nothing in the end. You’re just another nigga with a job,” Troy snapped. “Most niggas don’t even get a chance to travel.”

  “My father did,” Scott interjected. “He traveled a lot. He served in the Vietnam War, too. He said that it was many Blacks in the war, getting killed, and now only a few get any benefits for it. But he’s been to many places around the world. He told me that the women were tryin’ to marry Americans to come back here to live.”

  The freshman suddenly stopped and began to giggle. “My pop told me that he got some drawers everyplace he went. Women in other countries just throw themselves at U.S. military men.”

  Troy shook his head with a grin. “See, man, that’s the kind of shit the White people started. They’ve prostituted the world. Them women are tired of being poor, just like the rest of us.”

  “But you know w
hat, Troy? I’ve been to L.A. myself, man, and Blacks are living a lot better than us over there. They still have slums and all, but they’re nice slums compared to ours. And over there, the Mexicans are treated worse than Blacks.

  “It was pitiful when I was over there and saw that Mexicans were going through what we have already been through. They’re just living any way that they can. And Orientals don’t live as well on the West Coast as they do on the East Coast, either,” Scott mentioned. He amazed Troy with the things he knew as a freshman. Troy remembered that he knew a little bit, but not a lot until the past summer, when he had become race conscious.

  “Damn, it’s that bad for Mexicans?” he asked.

  “Well, not for all of ’em,” Scott answered. “Those one-hundred-percent Spanish are the ones that own Mexican restaurants and stuff like that. And my pop told me that in Brazil, where people are all mixed up and stuff, that if you’re White you can get a job easier. They’re tryin’ to keep that European look in public places down there. And if you’re Black in Brazil, or mixed up, like, with Indian blood, you can only get those physical, behind-the-scene jobs.”

  “Yeah,” Troy responded, still listening.

  “Yup, man. But the people down there think it’s OK. The Portuguese tricked them into believing that all people are equal regardless of color.

  “That’s bullshit, basically, but you have to be an outsider to see it. But you know, the United States is the most racist country in the world, besides Great Britain and South Africa. My father said that when he went to Germany and France, the women didn’t care that he was Black, he was just another person.”

  Troy had no comment.

  Scott went on. “Take a place like Haiti; it’s the Blackest country on this side of the world, and it’s also the poorest. My grandmother is from Haiti.”

  Troy began to examine Scott’s darker complexion.

  “And my pop told me that Jamaica is basically run by the White people with money, and light-skinned Blacks. That’s why all the darker ones come here. They’re the ones who have more to gain. Most Jamaicans won’t tell you that, though. They try to argue about it.”

  Troy looked at his clock, to see that it was getting late. “Ay’, man, I better get back to studying,” he said.

  “All right then, scholar,” Scott called him.

  Troy smiled. “Aw’ight, professor,” he said in response. “Ay’, are you going to the discussion tomorrow?” he asked Scott before he left.

  “About light-skinned and dark-skinned Blacks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Naw, man. I saw the poster, but I got a lot of work to do,” Scott answered. He closed Troy’s door as he left.

  Troy had been to every Black function so far his sophomore year. He was becoming quite knowledgeable, bringing up good points at each meeting he attended. All of the events were positive, but he felt that none developed any plans to solve Black people’s problems.

  The rooms, again, were rented from campus administration. White staff members would set up microphones and the stage set. Sometimes they would go as far as providing food and refreshments.

  The discussion on light-and-dark conflicts was being held by the Delta Sorority. Troy had noticed that the Deltas sponsored a lot of progressive functions.

  All of the Black sororities and fraternities had to alternate dates for their events and parties. There were simply not enough Black college students to go around. And none of them owned or even rented houses. The Alphashad a house near Charleston Street. It was closed years ago when a student was shot and killed during a party.

  More Black students showed up for the discussion on light-dark conflicts as compared to the weak turnouts at a lot of the other functions. Everyone had something to say.

  “I never really thought that we still had a problem as far as light and dark skin is concerned. From what my mother told me, we have come a long way,” a tall, dark brown sister commented.

  “I never thought that I was better than anybody else, but I had always gotten more attention from the guys. And I guess dark-skinned girls were jealous. So they started callin’ me vanilla ice cream, banana girl, and stuff like that, which only made me call them smokeys and tar-babies, you know,” a cream-colored sister said.

  “I think we have to talk about Blacks who don’t have their identity intact, because I feel that’s also tearing us apart. It’s not like they are really accepted by White people; they’re just taking more resources and strength from the Black race,” an onyx-skinned brother added.

  “That is counterproductive. I know this girl who had a baby with a White guy, and the kid is going to school now in a White neighborhood. Now she’s having problems acceptin’ herself as Black, because she’s real light,” a sister sitting next to Troy brought up.

  “I’m always hearing how Blacks from the suburbs don’t have their identity, but Blacks from the inner city seem to have more problems than we do,” a petite suburban sister challenged.

  “Yeah, but y’all gotta know where you stand in the world, and you ain’t gonna get it out in the suburbs,” a reddish brown brother answered.

  “OK, maybe that’s true. But it’s a White world, so you might as well learn to deal with White people. And I feel that I’m better suited to do so than most of you, since I grew up with ’em,” the suburbanite rebutted.

  “She does have a point, because you do have to speak and act a different way for White people. If you expect to be hired for a job, you do have to dress presentably and wear a civilized hairstyle, too,” a light brown sister responded.

  The room began to stir with energy.

  A light-skinned sister with light brown hair and matching eyes spoke up from the front. “Wait a minute, now, what do you mean by a ‘civilized hairstyle’?” She wore her hair in a short bush, neatly trimmed on the sides.

  “Oh, I mean, your hair is OK, but when girls are walkin’ around with statues and whatnot on their heads, the White people are not going to hire them.”

  “Well, why is it that we gotta change everything about ourselves to please them? That’s a trip, ’cause they don’t have to change a damn thing for us. If you Black, then you should be allowed to look Black,” a sister in braids responded.

  Troy noticed a cute brown sister sitting right next to the speaker in the front row. She had a beautiful smile and small eyes. Her hair was cut short and curly. He made a quick decision that he would try and talk to her after the function.

  “You know, I’m sick and tired of us calling ourselves Black Americans anyway,” a light brown brother stood up to say. He was wearing a blue-and-gold kente outfit. “We have the Italian-Americans, the Polish-Americans, and the Irish-Americans. And everyone takes themselves back to a place. Now what are we going to say, we come from ‘Blacka’? No. We come from Africa, so we should start to call ourselves African-Americans. That’s where a lot of this stuff starts. ’Cause none of us isblack any damn way.”

  Troy had drifted off, staring at the sister he was attracted to. He paid little attention to the rest of the comments. He felt he had nothing to add. He had come only to see how others were being affected. The cute brown sister had distracted him anyway. So he waited patiently for a chance to talk to her. Fortunately, she walked in his direction after the last comment.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” he asked bluntly, snatching her attention.

  She looked at him and recognized his face. “Karen Lopez.”

  He smiled and held her hand. “I wanna talk to you.”

  “Ay’, Karen, come on, girl,” her friend called.

  Troy pressed, losing a grip on himself and on her small, warm hand. “Well, can I talk to you?”

  “Hold up, let me see what she wants first,” Karen responded.

  Troy snapped, disappointed. “Oh, you gotta follow her around. Aw’ight, then.” He thought that he had been turned down again. He had lost all of his touch with women.

  “No, I don’t need to follow her,” Karen responded, to his
surprise. She smiled, looking straight into his eyes.

  “Well, are you gonna talk to me?” Troy persisted. He still felt shaky about his confidence.

  Karen’s friend began to exit as she gave him her full attention. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said, smiling a beautiful smile. She wore a kente outfit herself, green and gold. Troy wore his usual jeans-and-shirt combination, with Nikes.

  “What do you mean, you ‘guess so’?” he quizzed. He started to grin, back in control of himself. “Either we gonna talk or we not,” he told her, beaming like a five-year-old.

  “Where you from?” she asked, still smiling herself.

  “Why?” he answered with a smirk.

  “’Cause I know you’re not from here. You have an accent. Are you from New York?”

  “Naw. I’m from Philly.”

  “Yup, I knew it was one of ’em. Y’all got them rough voices. Y’all sound like you about to beat somebody up.”

  Troy shook his head. “Naw. Do you go here?” he asked in a more pleasant manner. He was beginning to feel secure with Karen.

  “No, I was just visiting my girlfriend.”

  “You would have been a freshman this year?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you gonna come here next year?” he hinted.

  “Nope, I’m going to a Black college. I wouldn’t be able to stand being around all these White people. What’s your name, anyway?” she finally asked him.

  “Troy Potter,” he said.

  Karen got out a piece of paper to write his name down. “What’s your phone number?” she asked. After giving her his number, Troy said he would get hers when she called him, happy to know her already. Karen had a pleasant personality, and he just loved the fact that she didn’t seem the least bit shy.

  Bloomp bloomp bloomp.

  “Yo, come in!” Troy shouted through his door.

  “Ay’, what’s up, my brother?” Peter said, entering.

  “OK, here’s Holy Man,” Troy responded, chuckling. He was in a good mood after meeting Karen.

  “Well, how was the thing?” Peter asked, ignoring Troy’s crack.